


Don't Think I'll Ever Get Enough

by The_Shame_Basement



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Biting, Bruises, College, Crying, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Memory Loss, Nipple Play, Sexual Abuse, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shame_Basement/pseuds/The_Shame_Basement
Summary: Rose takes an interest in her teacher, but soon finds herself in over her head. Ms. Serket is dangerous, manipulative, cruel, and much more than Rose can handle.





	Don't Think I'll Ever Get Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Finder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finder/gifts).

> The summary is the prompt; it was written so perfectly I couldn't resist using it!  
Hope you enjoy this!!

My head aches. 

I am in my bed. 

It’s full daylight outside. My nightstand clock tells me it’s a few minutes before noon. 

I’ve skipped my first two classes today, and if I don’t get up, I’ll end up skipping the third as well. 

I don’t want to get up. 

I close my eyes.

* * *

I’m still me, but it’s a few days ago. I’m eighteen and a college freshman; I’m ready to make mistakes. My adolescence spent hidden away in the backwoods of upstate New York has not made for many opportunities to have sex or do interesting things with my life. What’s four years of college without a few scars and a few good stories to tell, right? 

Besides, I’m clever and capable and thoroughly mature for my age, and I know well enough to avoid the things that’ll actually harm me. I don’t want to die, after all. I just want to live a little. 

So, when my psychology class starts and a gorgeous, dark-haired, impeccably-dressed MILF walks through the door and introduces herself as the professor before winking at me in the front row, I see the path before me clear as day. I’m going to have excellent and ill-advised lesbian sex with a dashing older woman, and it’s going to be great. I daydream through the rest of class, taking scant notes and trying not to look like I'm staring, and only paying attention to the bit on the syllabus where her office hours are listed. As it happens, they’re scheduled for tomorrow. 

The next day, I wake up, pull on my snuggest and lowest-cut shirt, make myself up with glossy lipstick and smoky mascara, and walk my pretty ass over to the downtown street where my professor’s office is located. There’s no one in the hall outside, and when I go in, she’s alone as though she's waiting for me. 

I take a seat. 

“Hello, ma’am. My name is Rose. I’m in your Intro to Psychology class.”

She pours me a mug of pink, milky tea by way of response, and adds a spoonful of sugar. 

“Oh,” I say. “I don’t take sugar.” 

She smiles placidly at me. “This is _ noon chai_, dear, from the Kashmir Valley in the foothills of the Himalayas. People your age don’t tend to have palates well-developed enough to enjoy it straight. It’s not a judgement on your character.”  
She stirs the sugar in for me, then sits back. I’m too thrown-off to comment; she takes my silence as the hesitation it probably is. “Go ahead, try it.”

I take a cautious sip. It’s good, aromatic and fresh, but… salty. 

Well, it doesn’t matter. I drink another mouthful, then set the cup down. “Thank you for the tea, ma’am, but I had a few things I wanted to talk to you about.” 

“Oh?" she says, and leans back in her chair with a hand-wave. “By all means, then.”

I arch my back out and take a breath. “Well, Professor, I _ really _ want to make sure I engage fully with this class. Psychology is a passion of mine, and as such, I want to be absolutely sure I’m doing everything I can to seek out… enrichment opportunities. I wouldn’t need extra credit; the reward of learning would be enough.”

She takes a moment just to look at me, and my heart skips a beat at the scalpel-precision of her gaze. “Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve seen your research, and I’d really, really love a close intellectual relationship with you.”

I'm being the most blatant little academic slut I know how to be. She lets the silence bloom between us like larkspur.

“Get up and close the door, Rose.” 

Oh, wow, shit. This is it, it’s happening. I can’t get out of and back into my seat fast enough. Her gaze feels like it’s flaying my skin off, and I shiver under it. 

“Are you wearing a push-up bra?”

Wait, what? The question takes me completely off-guard; I falter. “Ah, no..?”

“Mm.” She arches an eyebrow slightly. “You should consider getting one. It’d flatter you a bit more”

I can’t figure out how to respond to that, and my cheeks heat and color before I can compose myself. She clucks her tongue as she rises from her seat. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. You’re trying your best, I can see that, and it’s a very cute effort. I’m just trying to help you refine your technique.” 

She’s moved around to stand behind me, and her hands have come to rest on my shoulders, kneading into the knots there. It feels good, and before I know it, I’m starting to lean back into the chair as she works. Her manicured fingers slide over my bare collarbone, then lower; when they come to rest where the top of my breast meets my upper ribs, her voice comes warm and sultry in my ear.

“May I?”

It's not clear what she's asking, but how can I refuse? I nod, pulse slowing dreamily under her touch. She eases my head back to rest against her sternum as she feels over one breast, then the other, cupping and kneading with a clinical touch. Her fingertips brush over my nipple, and I gasp; she makes a quiet noise of interest, and tweaks it. I tense sluggishly; she pinches harder. I suck in a shaky breath. Her voice is soft again in my ear. 

“Sensitive?”

I hum a _ mhm _in reply, and can hear her smile as she pulls up my shirt to expose my belly and bra. The slide of fabric makes me squirm; everything feels calmer than it ought to, but there’s something spurring me on. 

Her voice comes again as she slides fingers under the cup of my bra to feel over the softness underneath. I feel like some kind of creature being prised from its shell. Her nails dig briefly into the flesh. I’m vulnerable, and my nipples are stiff with it. 

“Tell me more about how sensitive they are, dear. Tell me how this feels.”

“Mn, it feels nice.” My tongue seems thick in my mouth. I fumble with the syllables, and it distracts me enough I have to work to elaborate. “They- um, they’re practically as sensiv-- as sensitive as my clit. I’ve come just from playing with them before.”

“Really?” She murmurs it, and– without warning– pinches them both _ hard_. I squeal, high and unpleasantly feminine, and she purrs in my ear. “Oh, _ good girl_. That’s nice, isn’t it? I bet it’s making you wet.”  
It’s not. It hurts with a searing kind of pain, and I can feel my heartbeat pound as the blood comes rushing back under her fingertips. She doesn’t wait for a response before doing it again, holding for ten seconds or more and rolling my nipples between the tips of her fingers. 

It’s agony. This isn’t fun anymore.

But I realize numbly as the seconds pass that I’m starting to get wet. She still hasn’t let go, and my legs press together; she notes the movement and tugs sharply. I suck in a breath through my teeth, which she evidently misinterprets as encouragement. She pinches even harder before letting go, and this time the pain sharply increases as the nerves scream and strain to adjust back to normal. 

“What a sweet little thing you are.” That’s her talking again. I’m having a little trouble focusing. “You’re an honest-to-god painslut, aren’t you?”  
A moment of silence. I’m not sure where she’s going with this, and I can’t find the words to tell her she's wrong. 

“That’s _ very _ good, Rose. I adore that in my lovers. We’ll get along beautifully.” 

I sit limply in the chair like I’m tied to it while she comes around in front of me and kneels, but there’s no deference whatsoever in the way she moves. She pushes my bra up and puts her mouth to my chest, and alternates between sucking and biting and flicking with her tongue on each side– harsh and gentle, rough enough to leave rising bruises when she pulls off to switch over– until my throat aches with the threat of tears at how badly it hurts. She keeps going, and going, and I eventually loll my head back and stare at the clock, desperate for something else to focus on. 

She continues for eleven minutes before she finally leans back, and I’m crying, and her lipstick’s smudged across my bruise-mottled skin, and she’s got three fingers in me and is curling them hard towards my g-spot with quick thrusts, enough so that I’ve canted my hips involuntarily towards her and am having to fight not to squeeze my thighs together. 

“Oh, you’re so pretty. You’re so lovely like this; you cry like an angel, Rose. I wish you looked like this all the time.” Her voice slides over me like a knife. “I know you need this. Don’t worry, darling, I'm here to help.”

Her fingers curl to work my panties down towards my knees, and she bows her head to press her face between them. My cheeks are wet, and my chest burns, but she sucks too hard at my clit and fingers me deep, and I helplessly come to the feeling of her teeth on my thigh.

Words sound unbidden in my head.

"What an _easy_ little slut. We're just getting started, Rose."

* * *

I can remember getting dressed that morning in an attractive outfit, and going to my first class of the day, and heading over in the direction of my professor’s office– and that’s it. The next thing I remember after that is waking up with a splitting headache in the hospital. I have bruises all over my breasts, hips, thighs, and genitals, and a bad scrape across my cheek and forehead. Apparently someone found me facedown on the sidewalk outside my dorm that night; I smelled strongly of alcohol, and the breathalyzer they gave me showed I’d been drinking quite a lot. 

I’ve lost my scholarships. 

My hypocrite mother is considering sending me to therapy for addiction. 

I woke up this morning to an email from my professor’s private address. 

_ Rose, _

_ I’m so sorry to hear about what happened. I shouldn’t have let you drink as much as you did. It was my fault for trusting you when you said you knew your limits; I was the adult in the situation, and it was my responsibility to keep you safe. _

_ Despite what happened afterwards, our evening together was amazing. I loved getting to know you, and the thought of you has been driving me absolutely wild since. _

_ I hope you heal quickly, darling, and if there’s anything I can do for you– whether that be academic help, advice, or just someone to listen– please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here to help. _

_ Best wishes, _

_ Aranea _


End file.
